"What the Hell is this?" Crowley asked, his brows furrowed. When the Winchesters had blown up his phone in need of 'demon help', he hadn't expected this.

There was a hastily drawn devil's trap on the floor that clearly hadn't contained you like it should. You were haphazardly locked in a dog crate in Bobby Singer's panic room. Your pupils were slit like a cat, and you had vampire fangs. But you were clearly a demon based on the energy you gave off. Castiel's angel powers were the only reason you hadn't tore through the kennel yet.

"Why is the dammed thing so strong?" Bobby demanded in his thick Southern accent. "IS this one of your fuckin' experiments?"

Crowley inspected you. You were snarling like a dog, practically drooling. But you exhibited some restraint. "You morons," he said roughly, taking a step back. "This isn't my kind of demon."

Dean blinked slowly, his frustration mounting. "There are types?"

Crowley rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes of course there are, Squirrel. Don't you read?"

Sam watched you in the cage, having unfortunate memories of his own stint on demon blood. "She's clearly trying not to hurt us." Dean opened his mouth to protest, raising his gun. But Bobby stepped forward first. He'd grabbed a contraption from his collection of weapons stored in the panic room. He quickly opened the wire door and fastened the device around your face.

It was like a muzzle. A thick black leather with a metal mouthpiece you could chomp your fangs on. So you could be let out without mauling anyone.